


One Night in Bangkok

by bea_meupscotty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Dirty Talk, F/M, Infidelity, Mostly Smut, Shameless Smut, a bit of angst, inspired by Chess, strip club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13937781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_meupscotty/pseuds/bea_meupscotty
Summary: Across the world on an assignment, Harry finds a familiar face. Games are played, but not the kind he’s expecting.Or, I went to see the Chess the Musical and Raul Esparza singing One Night in Bangkok somehow led to some Harry/Pansy smut, and I'm not sorry about it.





	One Night in Bangkok

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i clearly do not own harry potter. nor do i own chess the musical. 
> 
> to be read alongside a healthy dose of ABBA (plus, ofc, One Night In Bangkok).

Harry began to sweat the instant he felt the navel-jerk tug of the Portkey stop and deposit him in Bangkok. The air was thick, heavy and hot; the way it draped over him and filled his lungs with every breath made him feel like he was suffocating in a moist blanket. 

“Fuck Merlin, it’s hot here.” 

Harry looked up to see Davies grimacing and fanning himself with a hand. Grunting in assent, Harry began shrugging off his robes and rolling up the sleeves of his starched white button-down. Well, it had been starched approximately 30 seconds ago, but was beginning to wilt under the combined pressures of the muggy air from without and the sweat pouring off Harry’s body from within. His partner quickly followed suit, shedding layers as fast as he possibly could. Once he’d lost as much clothing as reasonable in public, Davies withdrew his wand from its holster and quickly cast a Cooling Charm on himself.

Harry glared, envying him the relieved sigh and deep breaths he was taking. “Kingsley said we’re supposed to use magic only when absolutely necessary on foreign soil,” he said pettily, hating himself for the petulant tone it came out in. He sounded like an eleven year old Hermione. 

Davies just rolled his eyes. “Which do you think Kingsley will be more mad about: one little Cooling Charm or two Aurors succumbing to heatstroke?” 

Harry wisely decided to drop the subject, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to cast a Cooling Charm of his own, and the pair made their way out of the Portkey arrival area and into the main part of the British Embassy in Bangkok. The magical building was on the same grounds as the Muggle embassy, part of nine acres of gardens stretching across central Bangkok. The buildings themselves were old, colonial-old, all white walls and green shutters and decorative wooden accents, and Harry found himself trying not to gape like a tourist at the designs, which made him feel like he had fallen back in time. Soon they found themselves in front of a helpful clerk, who quickly led them into the ambassador’s office. It fit the decor theme, filled with brightly colored knick-knacks from all over Southeast Asia, with dark wood and wicker furniture around a grand desk that took up most of the room. Behind that desk sat the ambassador, a thin man with narrow lips pinched tightly together and a pair of round, rimless spectacles perched on his nose. 

He looked up at the two as they entered and motioned for them to sit in the wicker chairs in front of the desk. The Aurors obliged without question, eager to get closer to the open window beside the chairs which was circulating the slightest hint of a breeze. 

“Potter and Davies, correct?” the ambassador said in a clipped, business-like tone. Without waiting for verbal confirmation, the ambassador plowed right ahead. 

“I’ve read the file Auror Shacklebolt sent over, so let me make sure I clearly understand what it is you’re doing here. You have knowledge of Dark artifacts being brought into Britain, which originate in Thailand. You have evidence both from anonymous tips and a couple of breached customs wards. You have confidential information which leads you to believe another shipment will be made sometime this week. You suspect LP Enterprises, based on information _not_ provided in this file, and have come merely to ask some questions at their base of operations in Bangkok. Have I covered everything quite clearly?” He looked at the two of them over his glasses with a stern expression on his face. 

Harry simply nodded. He understood perfectly clearly what this man was getting at, and he wasn’t willing to start an international mess. Boy-Who-Lived or not, Kingsley would have his balls. Davies, unfortunately, was a little slower on the uptake, or just a little more confident in his own powers of persuasion. 

“That’s absolutely correct, Ambassador Bradwell. We’ll just go in, look around a bit, ask a few questions, a very light investigation. Bradwell, say, are you related to Harrison Bradwell, of Wiltshire? He and my father are quite close...”

Ambassador Bradwell narrowed his eyes as Davies prattled on about his father’s many potential connections to the Bradwell family, and Harry hoped that he was only inwardly cringing; he was afraid he may actually be shrinking back into his seat as he watched the ambassador’s lips grow even thinner, pressed tightly together.

“Young man, you will do no such light investigation. I thought I had made myself perfectly clear. You are on Thai soil, under Thai jurisdiction, with no authorization to conduct a foreign investigation. Any such investigation would be in violation of international wizarding treaties and, given the prestige and power of LP Enterprises and its close ties to the Thai government, could cause, to be frank, a diplomatic shitstorm. You will ask questions at the Thai headquarters and you will accept whatever answers they give you.”

At this Harry jumped in, finally feeling sorry for his smarmy partner. “Perfectly understood, ambassador. We’d hate to cause any damage to relations between Britain and Thailand, and will treat this assignment with all the delicacy that the situation requires.” Davies nodded furiously in assent, and the ambassador finally leaned back in his chair, seemingly satisfied. 

“Very well. These files contain all of the information we have on the Thai operations of LP Enterprises, which you’re welcome to peruse. We’ve made you an appointment for first thing tomorrow morning.” The two Aurors nodded gratefully and accepted the outstretched folders. As they were getting up to leave, the ambassador cleared his throat one more time, and the pair paused nearly at the doorway.

“And gentlemen? Please do enjoy your time in Bangkok.”

\- - -

The next morning Harry took a cold shower and spent several minutes splashing his face with cold water from the basin sink, as if he could somehow inundate himself with the chill and carry it with him into the inevitable heat. Walking downstairs, he saw Davies talking to the hotel clerk, a charming smile on his face. He looked remarkably well for someone who had chosen to go out sightseeing the night before, his wiggling eyebrows all Harry needed to hear on the subject of exactly what kind of sightseeing had gone on. Harry, on the other hand, had felt more jetlagged than he’d known it was possible to feel and had fallen asleep face down on his bed with all of his clothes on.

“Apparently there’s a brilliant food cart right around the corner serving this omelette-style thing. I figured we’d go grab something before we headed over to LP?” Davies asked him as he took a piece of paper that the clerk slid across to him, with what looked like a crude map to the food cart on it. 

“We’re here on assignment, not on vacation,” Harry grumbled, having hoped that they could eat some British breakfast at the hotel and Floo to LP Enterprises. Davies’ plan contained rather too much walking around in the sun for Harry’s taste. 

“I wasn’t aware that we didn’t need breakfast on assignment.” Davies didn’t even bother to hide his eye roll.

Harry reluctantly followed the older man out of the hotel and into the busy crush of the street, which was filled with a dazzling array of sights and smells, plus a truly astounding cacophony of people and vehicles. He hung back and let Davies order for the both of them, two orders of khao kai jeow, and, once his stomach was full of rice, egg, pork and sauce, Harry conceded aloud that Davies’ plan had been far superior to his own. 

Not long after, the two found themselves in front of LP Enterprises’ Thai headquarters. Unlike the British Embassy and their hotel, which had been constructed in a historic style (or just in a historic period), the LP Enterprises’ headquarters was housed in a tall, sleek modern skyscraper. A friendly front desk worker took their names and escorted them into the elevator, where they headed for the top floor. They walked down a broad, brightly lit corridor until they found themselves in front of the a line of tall glazed windows, at the end of which was a door leading into the office of the Vice President of Operations in Thailand. Harry exchanged a look with Davies, and then they both nodded. 

After a quick knock, the two of them stepped through the door and found themselves in a spacious office. The man behind the desk that occupied much of the center of the room stood, leaning forward to shake their hands in turn. 

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Davies. Edward Marks, at your service. How may we help you gentleman?” Mr. Marks was a plump older British gentleman, with a bristly grey mustache that twitched animatedly as he spoke, as if it had a mind of its own. 

Harry shot a glance at Davies, who gave him a barely perceptible nod. On their walk over, the two of them had discussed how this would go: first Harry, the bad cop, brusque, leveling the facts and accusations and making demands, scaring them a little. Then, Davies, doing what he did best, would charm them, talk them down, make them grateful and cooperative. The Aurors wanted them a little scared, but not so scared they’d turn to their lawyers. 

“Mr. Marks, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. I wish it were on better terms, really, but unfortunately this is quite a serious matter. We have evidence of a number of Dark artifacts being shipped to Britain from Thailand, and all of the evidence is pointing to your company.” Harry noted with satisfaction that a thin sheen of sweat had broken out on Mr. Marks’ forehead, and pressed forward. “We’ll need your fullest cooperation in order to clear your name. Access to your warehouses, records, employees for questioning. It’d be most unfortunate were you to be uncooperative; I’d dare say the Ministry would revoke your import license, not to mention the potential for personal criminal changes...” He ended with a shrug, letting Mr. Marks fill in whatever the most fearsome consequences he could imagine were.

Harry leaned back, satisfied with the way things were going so far, when he heard a slow clapping coming from the corner of the room. His attention shot toward the source of the sound, only to find, of all people, Pansy Parkinson stepping out from a sliding glass door that he’d foolishly assumed was another of those solid glass wall panes. He’d hardly recognized her. Her skin, which had been almost vampirically pale back at Hogwarts, was now a golden bronze, and she was wearing a Muggle dress, loose-fitting but structured, looking more commanding than if she’d been wearing a three-piece suit. It was the nose that gave it away, still thin and upturned, though she’d grown into it a little. Harry was ashamed to admit he’d always assumed she’d have it changed after she graduated. 

“Bravo, Mr. Potter. That was a delightful speech you made. Great delivery, I almost believed your righteous indignation. A few points of criticism, though. You should maintain eye contact with your target, it makes people so much more uncomfortable. Your left hand fidgets when you’re nervous. Oh, and, one more thing: I heard nothing about any authority you have whatsoever to be conducting an investigation into my business. No evidence, no warrant, and, if I’m not mistaken, the Thai authorities don’t often set British Aurors loose on their own to look into a Thai company, on Thai soil, full of Thai employees, under Thai jurisdiction.” 

Davies must have looked even more dumbfounded than Harry (who was utilizing every bit of Auror training he’d ever received to keep his face calm and dispassionate), because Parkinson took another step forward, the slow smile on her face growing. 

“I see introductions are in order, my apologies. Pansy Parkinson, Executive Vice President, Southeast Asia, granddaughter of Leonidas Parkinson. Now that we’re all clear on that, and on what exact authority the British Ministry has here, I’d be happy to cooperate and take the two of you on a tour of our facilities. What say you, gentlemen?” 

Harry was the first to recover from the shock of it all, nodding in agreement. “That sounds perfectly reasonable, Ms. Parkinson,” he ground out reluctantly. Once he’d gotten over the shock of her appearance, the first time he’d seen her since the days just after the war ended, he’d found his blood beginning to boil. He hadn’t forgotten what she’d tried to do, at the Battle of Hogwarts, and yet here she was, comfortably ensconced halfway around the world, running a business empire and condescending to Aurors, just like back at Hogwarts when she’d used her biting tongue to cut everyone around her. And the most infuriating part of it all was that she was right. They had no right to carry out an investigation, as the ambassador had made perfectly clear to them, and she was waving it in their faces. 

The pair of Aurors followed her clicking heels down a long corridor and into the elevator. Her tour began one floor below, where she gestured broadly at a floor set up as a full Potions workshop, rows upon rows of bubbling cauldrons and intent-looking women and men studying them, making notes, talking amongst themselves. “This and the two floors below it are our main research laboratories, each floor devoted to a different line of operations: pharmacological, retail, and cosmetic. Retail is really not even the whole floor, as we’ve been finding much more exciting avenues for growth in the other areas. Turns out a Pepper-Up Potion is pretty much just a Pepper-Up Potion, and a Scourgifying Solution is a Scourgifying Solution. Originally we imported our ingredients from Southeast Asia for research in identifying unique new uses, but we found that having operations here was more cost-efficient, particularly because it allowed us to recruit local talent with an existing familiarity with the ingredients.”

They listened to her prattle on like this for ten more floors, Harry growing increasingly, illogically, angry. She was giving them everything they wanted, of course, a full tour, with a more fulsome than strictly necessary (or desired) description and briefing on each and every bit of their operations. But it was all on her terms. He continued to glare at her as she whisked them around, hating the sound of her shoes on the tile, hating the blandly informative tone of her voice, hating her comfort and ease in the Muggle dress while he sweated to death in his button-up and trousers, and even, after he caught Davies ogling her when he thought she wasn’t looking, hating her long, shapely legs and her surprisingly striking face. 

Finally, they came to a stop back on the first floor, standing between the tall glass doors and the the blandly pleasant smile of the desk clerk. 

“Well, gentlemen, I hope you’ve enjoyed your little tour of our facilities, and that we’ve been as cooperative as you’d hoped.” Parkinson was smiling blandly, but her dark eyes were sparkling with amusement as her gaze rested on Harry’s scowling face. Davies began thanking her profusely, with his most charming grin on his face. Harry stood slightly off to the side, fuming and lost in his own thoughts, trying to articulate some deficiency in Parkinson’s cooperation that he could take back to the ambassador or Kingsley. 

“Right, Harry?” He was sharply jolted out of his reverie at the sound of his name, and he looked up to see Davies and Parkinson looking at him expectantly, with frustration and amusement respectively. 

“Er, what?” He hated the way that Parkinson’s smile grew incrementally, the mischievous twinkle in her eye flashing. 

“Pansy has graciously offered to take us sightseeing this afternoon, Potter,” Davies repeated slowly. A muscle in Harry’s jaw twitched at Davies’ use of Parkinson’s first name. Since when were they on first-name terms? Probably around the seventh floor, when she’d laughed at one of his dumb jokes and swatted his arm playfully, his brain unhelpfully supplied. 

“Can I speak with you a moment, Davies?” Harry clamped a hand around the taller man’s bicep and dragged him over to a corner, out of earshot of the desk clerk and Parkinson, who was pretending to stare interestedly at the ceiling. “What on earth are you thinking? We’re investigating these people, and you want to go gallivanting around Bangkok with queen overly-helpful over there?”

Davies rolled his eyes, hard. “Merlin, Potter. Listen to yourself.” He paused and exhaled sharply, his tone suddenly becoming very serious as he held Harry’s gaze. “They’re cleared. Our intelligence was wrong. We’ve looked at every bloody inch of this building, and had lengthy descriptions of every activity here. And,” he said, putting up a hand to stop Harry, who had opened his mouth about to protest, “and even if your gut is telling you there’s still something going on here, we’re at the limits of what we’re authorized to do. They’ve been more helpful than they had to be, and much as I found him an utter prat, I’d prefer not to incur the wrath of the ambassador. Just... try to relax and enjoy yourself, Potter.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, already a mess from the heat and sweat. He knew that Davies was right, but that didn’t make him happy about it. He hated feeling like his hands were tied, hated not being able to follow his instincts, hated that Pansy bloody Parkinson was standing in the corner with that stupid smug smile. 

“Fine.” 

The two of them rejoined Parkinson, Davies smiling broadly and Harry scowling. “We’d be delighted to take you up on your offer.”

“Wonderful, gentlemen. Just let me cancel my afternoon appointments,” Parkinson said, before pulling out a Muggle cell phone. After a few moments, she spoke in rapid Thai before hanging up and placing the phone back in her clutch. Harry’s mouth must have actually been hanging open (he wasn’t perfectly sure he was able to control any part of his face at that particular moment), because Parkinson turned to him, her half-smile growing. 

“Surprised, Mr. Potter? The integration of Muggle technology with magic is one of LP Enterprises’ most important development projects, and expected to be one of its most profitable. Besides, owl post is highly impractical in urban Bangkok.” 

Harry snapped his mouth shut, grunting in response. He could’ve sworn he heard Parkinson chuckle slightly as she turned towards the exit, sliding her arm into Davies’ proffered grip.

\- - -

The first stop on Parkinson’s second tour of the day was the Grand Palace. Harry was rendered entirely speechless by the dazzling display of soaring architecture, intricately decorated and sparkling in the afternoon sun. It was just as well, because Parkinson kept up a steady stream of interesting and informative commentary, sometimes loudly attracting the attention of the Muggles around them, sometimes lowering her voice and hanging close to Harry and Davies to include a magical tidbit or two, which happened frequently, since, as Parkinson explained, the historic kings of Thailand had been wizards. When she did that, Harry could catch the scent of her perfume, which was an intoxicating mix of sweet vanilla and bitter scents he’d expect of her, coffee and pepper and patchouli.

Harry had grown almost used to Parkinson’s presence and constant chatter by the time they’d reached the Emerald Buddha (which was not made of emerald, but rather of jade or jasper, as Parkinson pointedly informed them). He didn’t appreciate her presence, certainly not in the way that Davies appeared to be appreciating it, but he had stopped clenching his jaw every time he looked over and saw her next to him. Maybe it was because of this newfound level of comfort that he finally found his voice, interrupting Pansy’s chatter and Davies’ occasional attempts at flirtation.

“How do you know all this, Parkinson?” She turned to him, and where he had been expecting another of her Cheshire smiles, she looked actually thoughtful. She took a few seconds to think before she finally answered him, her voice slow and deliberate.

“When I first came here for work, I didn’t really know anyone. I spent a lot of time walking around, taking the tours, looking up the things I saw. Besides, it made it easier to build operations here and understand the market, understanding the history of the place.” At the mention of her business, a ghost of her former mischievous look reappeared, but Harry was left with the unsettling feeling that she’d been being authentically open, and he was left to silently follow her and Davies as they meandered, pondering the mental image of Parkinson wandering the sights of Bangkok alone. He tried not to wonder how she’d felt, all alone in a strange place, to empathize with her, to begin to feel sorry for her. 

The unsettling feeling stayed with him as their tour turned south, to the giant golden statute of the Reclining Buddha. As Parkinson explained the iconography of the statute and each of its elements, Harry found himself watching her sidelong, noticing the way she tucked her short hair behind her ears before she launched into a new explanation, her reverent gaze at every detail of the imposing structure before her, the sunny smile she gave a Muggle child who tumbled into her. He told himself that as long as he still suspected LP Enterprises of having some hand in the Dark artifact smuggling, this observation was really just a part of his investigation, just a part of his commitment to thorough and good Auror work. 

By the time they’d reached the complex of Wat Arun, Harry relaxed into more active participation, pointing out different features and asking about them, following up Parkinson’s explanations with questions and comments. She seemed happy to chat at length, answering his questions, taking his comments and thoughts seriously. Or maybe she was just grateful for a break in Davies’ insistent flirtation. Harry could almost forget who the two of them were, and imagine himself just a tourist, out with a friendly guide. Finally, Parkinson glanced down at the watch on her wrist, and then motioned for the two of them to follow her, out of the temple and onto a small ferry taking them across the river. Harry followed her unquestioningly, and the three of them wound up on the edge of a dock, looking back the way they’d come. Parkinson had seated herself between the two Aurors, close enough that Harry was struggling not lean over for a deep inhale of her heady perfume. He briefly considered asking her where she’d gotten it, so that he could get some for Ginny, but changed his mind as soon as the thought had fully formed in his mind. He didn’t want her to know that he’d noticed it, and, if he was being honest with himself, knew that he couldn’t smell the perfume, even on Ginny, without thinking of Parkinson’s dark eyes flashing in the golden reflection of the temples. 

“Much as I implicitly trust you, Pansy, what exactly are we doing here?” Davies asked. Harry turned away from his partner’s fawning smile and the sight of his hand reaching out to rest gently on Parkinson’s knee, certain the anger bubbling deep in his chest was at Davies for being a fool and just that, nothing more. 

“Oh!” he gasped, finally catching sight of the reason Parkinson had brought them to a crowded dock smelling of fish. The sun was beginning its descent through the hazy Bangkok sky, and had just begun to sink beneath the soaring towers of Wat Arun. The setting sun’s rays were playing across the intricate architecture, sending some angles of the temple into deep shadow and setting others afire, the red catching the golden towers. 

Harry glanced over at Parkinson next to him, who was watching the sun set herself, its rays bathing her face in golden light, the towers reflected in her eyes. Harry found himself unable to breathe for a moment, watching her intense gaze, the confident set of her face. One bead of sweat escaped from her hairline and he found himself glued to its slow path down her face, to the delicate column of her neck until it disappeared beneath her dress. She glanced over at him, and he flushed scarlet, fully expecting her to taunt him mercilessly for staring, but all she did was give him a Mona Lisa smile. “Watch the sunset, Potter.”

\- - -

After the spectacular sunset, Parkinson led the three of them to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a tiny dining area in the front accessible to Muggles but that then stretched on impossibly further back, with room upon room of dining for magical patrons. The owner, an elderly Thai woman, greeted Parkinson with a giant hug and some fierce chatter in Thai. They were seated at a dark table in the corner, which was soon piled high with an assortment of fragrant dishes and a bottle of local rum in the center. Parkinson poured them each a shot and even Harry took his with a smile that turned into a grin as Davies coughed on the harsh burn. The owner shouted something in Thai to Parkinson with a gesture towards Davies, and she positively cackled. It gave Harry some comfort to know that at least something about her was the same as it had been in school, though he found it to be much less shrieking and grating than he had at 14. Now it sounded raucous and unabashed, almost infectious in its sheer lack of inhibition. Or maybe it was just because he loved taking the piss out of Davies. In any event, Harry joined in the laughter, and the owner gave him a wink.

The odd trio kept up a steady stream of chatter throughout the meal, with Pansy describing the different dishes and commanding that they try this or that, dipped in this sauce, not after eating that. Harry’s mouth was burning with spice but his stomach was full and his face was beginning to hurt from laughing at Davies’ obvious discomfort with the intense heat of their food. 

“So, Parkinson, how long have you been here?” Harry asked amiably between mouthfuls of noodles.

“Well, I started coming here only a few years after the war,” she said thoughtfully, pausing to slurp at the creamy coconut-based soup in front of her, “but for a while I was just visiting, still spending the bulk of my time in England. About six or seven years ago I began spending almost all my time in Southeast Asia. I hop around between here, Seoul, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Tokyo.” 

His mouth full of food, Harry simply raised an eyebrow at her. She waited, her eyes glinting with amusement, and he rolled his eyes, chewing quickly before gulping down the noodles. “Why did you start coming here?” he asked finally, coughing a little. 

“We’d been looking to expand, and I pushed hard that Southeast Asia would be a huge geographic growth area. My father gave me leeway to pursue it and persuade him.” She grinned at that, her smug pride in what were her clearly successful efforts, based on the dossier Harry had perused last night, shining through her face.

“Never would’ve pegged you as the go into the family business type. I thought you’d be happily married to Malfoy by now,” Harry said lightly. He was dimly aware that maybe he’d crossed a line, but the rum had loosened his tongue and wrapped his brain in a comfortable haze, and so it was only when he saw Parkinson’s dark eyes go cold that he realized he’d gone too far. 

“I’m just full of surprises, Potter. Oh look, more rum,” she said with a half-smile that didn’t extend to her eyes. 

Harry was quiet for the next few minutes, as Davies and Parkinson picked back up the conversation, turning to less fraught topics. After another course, the conversation had regained its easy flow and Harry waded back in, if more carefully than before. Davies excused himself to go to the restroom and Pansy turned to him, her dark eyes meeting his with sudden intensity. 

“Parkinson, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up anything sensitive--” Harry started, but she held up a hand to cut him off. 

“Shut up, Potter. I’m apologizing to you.” Harry raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth as if to protest but wisely decided to let her continue. “For what happened during the war. At the Battle of Hogwarts.” Harry sank back in his chair, watching her guardedly. They’d gotten to a level of comfort, but only by pointedly pretending that the events of the Battle of Hogwarts hadn’t happened. Besides, he’d have bet his Firebolt 10 that Parkinson would never apologize to him for anything, much less for this. The Pansy Parkinson he’d known at Hogwarts didn’t apologize. 

“Don’t give me that look, it’s clear that you still hate my guts. And you’re perfectly entitled to, what I did was horrid. But I was young. My family had stayed neutral, which didn’t make us particularly popular among the Death Eater set. That last year at Hogwarts was awful. The Carrows made perfectly clear what was expected of a witch of my breeding, and any hesitancy was a sign that perhaps we were actually Muggleborn sympathizers who should be killed. I’m sorry for what I said, but I don’t regret it, and if I were in that situation again, not knowing who would win, I’d do it over again exactly the way I did it then.” Her voice was tight but her head was held high, chin jutting forward as if daring him to judge her, to call her on her defiant refusal to regret. 

Harry sat silently for a moment, stewing over what he’d heard. Parkinson, after a beat, continued, filling the awkward silence.

“I came here because of it, you know. My father was furious, he’d gone to so much trouble to stay neutral to ensure our business interests wouldn’t be harmed no matter which side won, and now here I was, the bloody pariah of the Wizarding world. Malfoy and the others could be forgiven as coerced, scared, threatened in the moment, but I was the girl who’d had the chance to fight and instead offered up the great Potter to save her own skin. There was no way to do anything for my family in England, and certainly no man would have me, so... here I am.” 

She took a long gulp of rum straight from the bottle in the center of the table, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand when she was done. His eyes darted back to the corner, where he saw Davies emerging from the bathrooms, and he suddenly leaned forward and grabbed her hand from across the table. 

“You’re right. I did hate you.” She raised an eyebrow at his use of the past tense and he shrugged, giving her a lopsided grin. “Like, even thirty minutes ago. But I understand why you did what you did, and what you’ve had to do since. I forgive you, Pansy, and... I’m sorry.” He quickly leaned back as Davies approached their table, eyes narrowed as he looked at Pansy’s hand, still laying on the table. Louder this time, Harry spoke again. “You weren’t kidding. That lotion seems fantastic. Please do send a sample before I go, and I’ll take it back to Gin.” 

Pansy smiled tightly, her eyes darting across to Davies. “Of course, Potter. It would be my pleasure.” 

\- - - 

Several hours later, it was late into the night, the restaurant was more bustling than ever, and Harry was well and truly drunk. Conveniently, so were his companions. Davies was in the midst of allocating the last of their third bottle of rum between the three of them and Parkinson was shrieking that he was shortchanging her. At any other time, he’d have found her behavior appalling, but his head was light and her laughter was infectious and Harry soon declared himself arbiter, taking over the pouring. The three of them drained their last glasses, and Harry let his head loll back, his stomach pleasantly full of good food and good alcohol and his brain full of a cheerful chattering of which he understood nothing, boiled down into a welcome hum. When he righted his head, he saw Parkinson and Davies with their heads put together closely, and he felt a twist deep in his gut. He was too drunk to even lie to himself that it wasn’t jealousy. Parkinson looked up at him, her mouth relaxing into a slow, predatory grin that sent a rush of heat through his body. 

“Come on Potter, there’s one more stop on our tour,” she said carefully, and Davies chuckled beside her. Harry would have suspected her of some kind of devious plot, but for the fact that Davies seemed in on the joke and delighted with it. Parkinson stood up, only swaying slightly, and made her way to the owner. They exchanged low words in Thai and then the elderly woman escorted the group further back into the depthless shop, and pointed down a few flights of stairs. Parkinson squeezed the woman’s hand, which came away with a gleaming gold coin in it, and then she opened the nondescript door in front of them, muttering a word in Thai under her breath.

Harry was the last to cross the threshold, and he stifled a gasp as his eyes took in the sight before him. The room was dimly lit, with the exception of bright neon lights at random intervals near the center of the room. In those areas illuminated by the neon were men and women in various states of undress, of all shapes, colors, sizes, and races, writhing to a throbbing rhythm that filled the room. Harry immediately broke into a sweat, feeling his body grow impossibly hotter and his pulse grow loud and insistent at his throat. His mouth suddenly dry, Harry swallowed desperately, and turned to look at Davies and Parkinson, who were both watching him. Davies was wearing a shit-eating grin, waggling his eyebrows, and Parkinson was giving him another of her Cheshire smiles, her eyes dark and flashing even in the dim. 

“You brought me to... to a... to a _strip club_?” Harry sputtered, his voice lowered to a hiss at the words strip club. His face was bright red, and Davies’ attempts to stifle a chuckle were only making him angrier. He tried to keep his eyes focused on Davies and Parkinson, but his gaze kept flitting around the room, getting distracted by the tableau in front of him. He nervously twisted the ring on his left hand. 

“Merlin, Potter, what Gin doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Davies said with exasperation. 

Parkinson raised a brow. “Oh, that’s right, you actually married the girl Weasel.” Harry fixed her with a fierce glare. She gave him a half smile and stepped forward. “It’s just a strip club, Potter. You don’t have to touch. Plenty of people go to them, it’s no big deal. Why do you think they’re basically a requirement of bachelor parties the world over?” As she spoke, she placed a hand on his right forearm, gently tugging it away from its nervous fiddling. “Just have a few more drinks with us here, alright?”

Her rationale was sound, if still a stretch, but Harry was more concerned with his reaction to the heat of her thin hand on his bare forearm. With the scent of her perfume and the parade of sensual images dancing at the corner of his vision, he could feel his skin heating and his breath coming more shallowly. He was trying very hard to think of Ginny, but every time he managed to fix her face in his mind he got another whiff of that dark vanilla and Ginny’s sweet smile transformed into Parkinson’s predatory grin. He shook his head as if to clear it and looked up at Davies and Parkinson. “Alright, a few drinks.” If only to make sure that Davies didn’t do anything spectacularly stupid.

Parkinson and Davies led the way to a table in the corner, secluded and in the dark, but with a clear view of the various performers. They’d soon had another bottle of rum brought to the table, and Harry quickly poured himself a generous glass. Parkinson and Davies looked positively relaxed, eyes scanning the room casually and appreciatively, and Harry desperately envied them. His pulse was still racing, and he kept glancing over his shoulder as if he might suddenly see someone he knew. He downed his glass quickly and immediately poured himself another. Davies raised an eyebrow but Parkinson just playfully smacked his arm. “Give him a break, let the poor man relax.” She turned her playfully flirtatious gaze to Harry, one eyebrow arched, and Harry took a large gulp of rum. 

“I bet Potter would appreciate that one right there,” Davies said, leaning forward and pointing. Harry turned his head to follow Davies’ direction and saw a pale dancer with long red hair, twirling around a pole in white lace. Harry blanched at the sight, and Parkinson sighed heavily. 

“You great bumbling idiot, don’t point at the woman who looks like his wife.” Parkinson leaned over, placing a hand on his knee, and Harry tried very hard think of anything but the gentle pressure of her hand on his knee. She leaned closer, putting her lips next to his ear, and the scent of her perfume and her sun-kissed skin was nearly overwhelming. “He’s just trying to keep you from noticing he’s looking at that bloke in the corner,” she whispered in his ear, giggling, and Harry looked at a tall, tan man in the direction Pansy’s gaze had flitted, who was rubbing some kind of oil on his abs. He glanced up at Davies and noticed that his eyes did in fact keep drifting over towards the man Parkinson had pointed out. He turned towards her, one eyebrow raised, and she just grinned back at him, wicked amusement glittering in her eyes. 

Parkinson kept the drinks coming, and after a few more, Harry found himself as relaxed as her and Davies. He slumped back in his chair, his legs sprawled to either side, laughing at some dumb joke Parkinson had made about one of the other patrons. The alcohol was zipping through his veins, mixing with arousal and the adrenaline of his earlier fear, making him even hotter than before, but he felt loose, uninhibited, untroubled by any of the things that had been worrying him before this--Davies’ flirtation with Parkinson, Ginny, even the shipment of Dark artifacts that he and Davies had lost their best lead on. He gave himself up to the sensual pounding of the bass, the twisting and rolling flesh on display in front of him, the heady scent of Parkinson’s sweat and perfume, and the sound of her voice, now husky with the low-grade arousal that seemed to have infected all of them. They were ostensibly talking about Parkinson’s business, the differences between the magical communities in Britain and around Southeast Asia, but Harry’s attention was focused on Parkinson’s mouth, the delicate shapes her lips made as she talked, the line of her throat and the way it changed when she swallowed, the tip of her tongue darting out to lick a drop of rum from the corner of her mouth. Parkinson leaned over to whisper in Davies’ ear, and Harry drummed his fingers against his thigh as he watched the flex of her thigh under her dress. 

“I’m going to the restroom,” Davies suddenly announced, standing up abruptly when Parkinson leaned back, and taking off confidently.

“Isn’t the restroom the opposite direction?” Harry asked quizzically.

Parkinson smirked. “He’s not going to the restroom.” She gestured with one hand and Harry watched the tan wizard from earlier slip down from the stage and head in the direction Davies had gone.

“Oh.” Harry suddenly felt a little lightheaded, everything become more real than it had felt less than five minutes ago. It had all just been drunken talk, the frisson of sexual tension charging the air at the table a byproduct of the setting and nothing more, left to dissipate when they decided they’d had enough, left, and Harry wanked alone in his hotel room, thinking of writhing flesh and Parkinson’s half-smile and then he would go back to his regularly scheduled life, this odd detour concluded. But now Davies was putting action to thoughts, and Harry felt unsettled. 

“This table seems a little big for just the two of us now... We could go someplace else, for a more private show.” Parkinson was positively purring in his ear now, and her words shot directly to his cock. “Who should we take, Potter? Her? She has great tits. Hm... Or him? No, you don’t strike me as the flexible type, not like Davies. Shame, his ass is nothing short of a miracle. No, no, I’ve been watching you, Potter. You want her,” she said, her fingers coming up to grip his jaw and turn his head in the direction of the woman she was pointing out. Harry felt a guilty rush--he had been watching this woman in particular. Something about her long legs and her short black hair. “Look at her, she is a great dancer. The ways those legs wrap around the pole... Bet you wish they were wrapping around you, Potter, pressing her cunt against you.” Harry was gasping for breath, her sound of her filthy words echoing through his head mixed with the pulse of the music and the rush of all of the blood in his body draining to his cock. 

He finally nodded, gulping, and Parkinson sat back with a smug smile. She snapped her fingers and a member of the waitstaff appeared. She spoke in rapid Thai, more gold exchanged hands, and then she was taking Harry’s hand and pulling him up and along with her. He followed her through dark winding hallways lit only by the occasional low neon glow, and finally into a dim room lined by comfortably plush couches, with a fresh bottle of that rum on a table next to the couches. Parkinson pulled him onto the couch next to her, one of her arms draped comfortably around his shoulders, their legs brushing, and Harry swallowed hard. She poured them both drinks and Harry gulped his eagerly.

Soon the dark-haired woman from before walked in, wearing a dark red silk robe and sky-high heels. A new song came on in their room, dark and sensuous, and the woman walked towards them, sashaying her hips. She swiveled to the beat, her hands caressing the length of her body over her robe before she spun quickly, her black hair fanning out around her head. She dropped to the ground, crawling forward between Harry’s legs, looking up at him with hungry eyes before she spun around and rolled her body up, giving him a flash of her tight arse in black lace knickers. Still facing away from him, she dropped the robe, and Harry stifled a sharp intake of breath at the broad expanse of skin. He darted a glance over to Parkinson, who was watching the show in front of them with eyes darker than usual, her pupils dilated and teeth worrying her plump bottom lip. She noticed him watching, and shot him a wicked grin. Harry felt his trousers grow tighter as he turned his attention back to the dancing woman. She had turned back to face them, fingers grazing her nipples through her thin lacy brassiere, and Harry tightened a grip he hadn’t even noticed he had on Parkinson’s lower thigh. The woman walked toward him once again, this time planting her hands on either side of his head, giving him an eyeful of her perky breasts as she dragged her hair against his cheek. Harry shuddered, and he felt Parkinson’s hand go to his on her leg, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The dark-haired woman lowered herself onto his lap and began grinding above it, her hands on her breasts again, and Harry shot a desperate glance over at Parkinson. She was watching him, with heavy lidded eyes and blown pupils, and when her tongue slid out to trace her bottom lip, Harry couldn’t help the buck of his hips upward. The dark-haired woman smirked down at him before she stood up and turned around, bending over and presenting her ass to him. Harry gulped, and then Parkinson reached out and spanked the girl’s ass, not hard but sharp enough for a crack to resound through the room that went (shamefully) straight to Harry’s already throbbing cock. 

As the woman stalked a few steps away, her hips sashaying, Harry turned to Parkinson, his eyes wide and breathing shallow. “Ah... Are you a lesbian, Parkinson?” 

A wide grin split her face, her eyes dancing. “Harry Potter, you naughty boy.” 

He was about to protest that that wasn’t, in fact, an answer, when she untangled herself from him and moved to join the dark-haired woman, whose bra had somehow made its way to the floor in the time that Harry had been distracted by Parkinson. As she stepped forward, wrapping her thin hands in the other woman’s hair and dragging her to her for a deep, sloppy kiss, Harry realized that he didn’t care what the answer was. Their bodies ground against each other to the rhythm of the music as they kissed, and Harry dropped a hand to press against his cock, struggling to contain his body’s out of control reactions to the scene before him. Parkinson stepped back, but only to shrug out of her loose dress. She was wearing a green bra and matching knickers. When she turned, revealing that her knickers were a thong, the smooth expanse of her ass exposed to his view, Harry couldn’t stifle a guttural groan, hips bucking up against his hand. Parkinson turned to give him a wink before she stepped forward and tweaked the exposed nipple of the dark-haired woman. Harry’s moan intermingled with the dark-haired woman’s, and as Parkinson stepped forward for another kiss, her hand now palming and massaging the other woman’s breast, Harry began rubbing his cock through his trousers in earnest, all shame or discretion tossed to the wind. Parkinson leaned down and tongued at the other woman’s breast. “Fuck,” Harry breathed, and Parkinson glanced over at him. Her gaze lingered on him for a long, heavy moment, and Harry recognized that the hungry want in her eyes was unmistakably directed at the erection clearly visible through his trousers. 

Harry cleared his throat, and both women turned to look at him. “I think it’s time for you to leave now,” he said, his voice low and husky with desire, his eyes burning. 

Parkinson smirked, leaning down to pick up her dress. “I’ll leave you two to it then.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Harry said, his voice commanding even as he continued to stroke himself through his trousers. “She’s the one leaving,” he said, nodding his head toward the dark-haired woman. 

For the first time all day, Parkinson looked taken aback at the turn of events, her mouth falling open in a little “oh” as she stared at Harry. The dark-haired woman slipped out a back door, leaving the two alone, staring at each other heatedly. 

“I thought you thought I was a lesbian.” Parkinson dropped her dress back to the ground, taking one slow step forward.

“Are you telling me you are?” Harry raised an eyebrow, keeping her eye as she stalked slowly closer.

“No.” She hesitated. “You hated me not even 6 hours ago.”

“I did. But I want you now.” 

She laughed harshly, and he was confused until it slowly dawned on him. Was Parkinson nervous? “You’re drunk, Potter.”

“Sober enough to know what I want.” Harry stood up and started to move towards her, closing the gap slowly.

She stayed silent, as if thinking of her next response. Her chin was held high, but he could see her pulse fluttering at her neck, and she swayed where she stood, as if she was thinking of running.

He stepped up to her, barely a breath between them. “I’m sorry if I’ve... misread... misunderstood... Pansy, I’m not here to take anything you’re not offering.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? If I said no, you’d just... what? Find that girl again?”

Harry grinned, the rhythm and alcohol and arousal pulsing through him, making him brave, even reckless. “No. I’d go home, and I’d take a hot shower and fantasize about spreading those long legs of yours, burying my face between them and licking your hot wet cunt until you absolutely fucking fell apart, screaming my name.” 

He was satisfied to see her breath catch in her throat, see her pulse flutter against her thin neck as her eyes dropped shut. “Fuck, Potter,” she whispered breathily. 

“I said you’d be screaming, not whispering, but yes, that’s basically right.” He was watching her hungrily, his hands itching to grab at her tanned skin, feel her flesh beneath him, pull her to him and just _take_ , but he was an honest man and he’d promised he wasn’t here to take.

They stayed like that, watching each other, for a heartbeat more, before she closed the gap between them and wrapped her arms around him, leaning up to whisper in his ear. “Hold on, Potter.” He barely had a moment to snake an arm around her waist before he felt the dizzying rush of Apparition. 

A few seconds later he felt them come to rest, and he opened his eyes. The light was still dim, not completely dark, but it had a different quality than the low red lights of the strip club. His eyes shot around the dark of what was clearly Pansy’s apartment, sleek modernism mixed with plush velvets and carved ebony screaming her taste (which he’d somehow come to know instinctively over the course of the day), and he paused when his eyes finally came to rest on the source of the low light: a wall entirely of glass, looking out over the shimmering lights of the city beneath them. She looked up at him when he stilled, and then followed his gaze, laying her head against his shoulder, both of them watching the city sprawled out before them for a moment in silence.

Harry turned, leaning down to capture her lips with his, hands moving to either side of her face. It was slow, but deep, his mouth learning every contour of hers as his fingertips slid against the smooth curve of her cheek, the sharp cut of her jaw. She sighed contentedly against him, pressing her body closer as the two of them lost themselves. He ran a thumb gently over her cheek and she suddenly stiffened, leaning away from him slightly. 

“Don’t do that. I mean, you don’t need to fucking cherish me or something, Potter. Just fuck me. I’m not your bloody wife.” 

Harry’s grip on her face tightened instinctively at the mention of his wife, and he stepped away from her breathing heavily, his brain urging him to run away from this hot and cold before he got burned by either, his cock pleading with him to stay right where he was. He started to turn away, to say he’d just leave, when he noticed her avoiding his gaze, tucking her hair behind her ears even as her hands shook, and turned back. 

“Really, Pansy? You don’t need this?” he said, stepping forward and resting one of his hands on her lower back, where he promptly began tracking soft circles with the pad of his thumb. “Or this?” He ran his other hand through her hair, tilting her head slightly so that he could run his tongue across her jumping pulse, alternating hot, wet open-mouthed kisses down the line of her neck and clavicle with gentle, barely-there brushes of his lips against her skin. 

“No,” she said, and Harry admired that he could barely hear the quiver in her voice. 

“And I suppose you don’t need this?” he murmured against her skin, one hand unclasping her bra before his mouth descended to her breasts, circling his tongue around one nipple while his hand traced feather-light strokes around the other, occasionally planting another of those long, lazy open-mouthed kisses. She squirmed beneath him, and he could feel her chest rising and falling more rapidly, but she just gave him another _no, don’t need it_ and he chuckled against her skin. 

“Really? Because I think...” he teased, his hand sliding down from her back to trace the curve of her ass, until his fingers were gently skimming over the fabric covering her cunt, stroking lightly as she whined, “that you do need this.” He pushed her back against the couch, steering her as he hooked his finger in her underwear and pulled them down her long legs. “I think you don’t just need to be fucked, you need to be touched, teased, cherished, fucking worshipped.”

At that, she whined, low in her throat, and he ran a finger through her folds, cursing under his breath. She was absolutely fucking sopping wet, for him, and once he decided to make his earlier fantasy a reality he wasn’t sure if the force of an oncoming train could’ve pulled him away from her glistening pussy spread open before him. His arousal was pounding through his veins and his cock was almost painfully hard, leaking against his trousers, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. He bent down, giving her one long lick the length of her pussy, then a quick flick against her clit. She absolutely keened beneath him, her hands coming down to tangle in his hair as she rolled her hips against his face. He groaned, but kept up a slow, steady pace, his tongue and one finger tracing lightly back and forth along her slit, occasionally pressing hard against her clit, or sucking, or giving it one quick flick, but never enough to push her over the edge. She was writhing underneath him, the only sounds in the room her whispered stream of curses and pleas, her harsh panting, and the filthy sounds of his tongue sliding and lapping against her cunt. He slid one finger inside of her and she gasped, her back arching as she gasped, “ _Potter, please, yes_ ”, and he crooked one finger inside of her, gently, slowly, rubbing and she was gasping for breath, barely coherent as she chanted and begged, his ears filled with the sound of her desperate voice, “oh, Merlin, fuck, yes, that, feels so good, wanna come, have to, need to come, please, Potter, I need it, need you, please, I need it, I need to come, I need it, _Harry_ ”. 

It was the sound of his name falling from her lips that sent a jolt through him so sharp that he groaned against her pussy, pushing a second finger inside of her, twisting, sucking sharply on her clit, and her legs clenched tight around him and her cunt spasmed around his fingers as her orgasm shook through her, leaving her whimpering his name as she ground her hips lightly against his face. Harry briefly felt for a second that he might suffocate with her around him, drown in the taste of her and and the feel of her slim thighs around him, and he thought it wouldn’t be such a bad death, death by Pansy Parkinson’s orgasm. 

No sooner had he come to peace with his fate than Pansy loosened her grip on him, reaching down to drag him up to her, lips meeting his in a sloppy kiss filled with the taste of her. She only pulled away to breathe and to strip his clothes from him as fast as she possibly could, Harry letting out a small groan of appreciation as she freed his cock. She pulled him up and tugged him towards a door, and Harry let himself be led into the bedroom. Once inside, in short order she had him on the bed, and he made to pull her with him but she shook her head, a slow grin spreading across her face as she sank to her knees. “You may have been right that time, Potter, but I have some thoughts about what you need as well.” 

She gave him two quick strokes of her hand, spreading pre-cum down his length, and then leaned down and took the whole of him into her mouth, until he could feel the back of her throat. Harry’s hands tightened in the bedspread, toes curling, and he felt certain that the only thing he would ever be able to see when he closed his eyes for the rest of his life would be Pansy Parkinson gagging on his cock, lips glistening, eyes twinkling mischievously up at him. His head fell back and he groaned her name as she began bobbing her head, her tongue running along the underside of his cock, her hand drifting to massage his balls. Harry felt his body run hot, felt the low pressure beginning at the bottom of his spine, and as he bucked his hips, involuntarily thrusting into her mouth, and felt her gag on him again, he quickly pulled her off of him, gulping in breaths of air as he fought to get himself back under control. 

When he was finally certain he wouldn’t come at the sight of her, he opened his eyes to see her still on her knees, mouth glistening, grinning up at him. “Fuck, Pansy,” he groaned, pulling her onto the bed with him and falling back, letting his hands trace the lines of her body, over her breasts, her slim waist, her tight hips and toned legs, reverently trying to memorize every inch of her. She steadied herself against his chest, and then rocked down onto him, ever-so-slowly taking the whole of him into her. Harry gripped her hip so hard he felt certain she’d have bruises the next day, counting backward from 100 as he watched the beautiful twist of pleasure on her face when he was finally fully inside of her. They stayed like that for just a moment, and then Harry leaned forward to run a hand down the side of her face and kiss her softly, and Pansy whined against his mouth and her hips snapped forward, and then they were moving wildly, Pansy riding him furiously, grinding forward to press her clit against him, Harry matching her pace as he slammed into her, focused on the gentle whimpers she gave every time his skin slapped against hers. 

He knew he wouldn’t last long, not after everything, not like this, and so he dropped a hand to her clit and began to rub quick, soft circles against it. Pansy absolutely keened, her cunt clenching around him, and Harry went light-headed with the feel of her around him. Soon, she had begun a steady stream of nonsense, interspersed with pleas and his name, and Harry couldn’t help himself from doing the same. He leaned up and pulled her close to him, angling her so that as he pounded against her and kept up the pressure on her clit he could turn his mouth to her ear. “Yes, Pansy, you feel so good, so good around me, you’re so fucking beautiful like this, Pansy, god, yes, want you to come for me, need you to come for me, will you come for me, Pansy, please,” and he felt her orgasm begin, her cunt clenching tight around him and her body tensing, moments before she threw her head back and screamed his name. A few brief thrusts later he was coming inside of her, his body shuddering against hers as he pulled her close. 

They lay like that for a few moments in silence, before Pansy rolled next to him. She tucked herself under the covers, and Harry followed suit, pulling her body against his and wrapping his arms around her as he planted soft, sleepy kisses down the back of her neck. He felt her tense next to him and stopped, wary. “What is it, Pansy?” 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“Do what?”

“You know, the whole... post-coital of it all. The kissing, the cuddling. Pretending like this wasn’t just a one-time fuck.” 

Harry bristled, his arm around her waist tightening. “I’m not pretending, Pansy.”

She rolled to cast a glance over her shoulder back at him, her eyes rolling. “This isn’t going anywhere else, Potter. I’m me, and you’re Harry bloody Potter. You’ll leave tomorrow and we’ll never talk again.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but he knew she was right, on some level. She had built herself a life here, and he had a life in England, a wife, he had fucking kids, but he couldn’t help but look at her and remember the Pansy he’d known at Hogwarts, who’d ruled Slytherin with a well-manicured iron first, who would’ve demanded to be cherished and hexed him if she weren’t worshipped, and who’d only had to build this life for herself because the one she’d built in England had fallen apart, at least in part because of him, and... want. Want what, he wasn’t sure, as if he could give her her life back by kissing her, but his heart was thumping quickly and his chest felt hollow and achey at the thought of turning away from her, so he did what he’d always done--went with his gut, recklessly, impulsively, stupidly. 

“I won’t leave. I’ll have to stay, or come back, as long as we still have to track down this shipment of Dark artifacts.” 

Pansy huffed beside him. “Don’t bother, they’re already long gone.” 

There was a moment of silence before Harry’s hand clamped against her waist, rage flooding through him. “You fucking bitch.” 

“Stop it, you’re hurting me,” Pansy cried, prying at his hands as she slipped out of the bed. He let go of her quickly, shame dousing the flash of rage as he looked down at his hand in the dark. 

“When?” he said, his voice so cold he almost didn’t recognize it.

Pansy was standing in front of the window, her arms crossed and her chin pushed forward again. “Shipment left at ten. I gave the order as soon as we finished your tour.” 

Harry cursed. “That fucking cell phone.” A beat passed between them. “And so all of... this, you slept with me just so you could get away with it? That’s pretty low, even for you, Parkinson.” 

“No,” she said, her voice cracking a bit. “I wasn’t... I didn’t ever mean to sleep with you. I was just going to keep you busy for the day, distracted, like Davies. You weren’t supposed to pick me, back at the club.” 

That particular avenue of thought shot a pang through his chest, so he quickly pivoted. “And all of that stuff at dinner? About how you were just a poor girl trying to protect her family? You’ve been a Dark wizard all along. I should arrest you right now.” He stood up, moving towards the door.

“No! Just... shut up and let me explain, alright? Five minutes.” 

He stopped, crossing his arms as he leaned against the door. “Three minutes. And I count quickly.” 

She took a deep, shuddering breath and sank back onto the bed. “I’m not a Dark wizard. The pharmaceutical division, we’re trying to create... cures, antidotes, especially to Dark curses and artifacts. So we have to study the artifacts themselves, or things like them, that create similar effects.” Harry snorted, and Pansy rolled her eyes. “It’s quite lucrative, yes, not just a charity project. But there’s been a string of break-ins at the factory. We’d hoped we could transfer the research to England, where there’s more security and the Ministry has more control over things, but when we applied for an import license it got held up because of...” Here she paused for breath, her voice cracking a bit, “Because of me. My involvement flagged it as suspicious. We were denied. So I decided to fix it, and I arranged for the things to be smuggled.” 

Harry leaned against the door in silence for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you?” 

Pansy huffed at him, rolling her eyes. “You have no reason to, of course. But everything I’ve told you is perfectly verifiable. Check with the Thai Aurors, they know about the break-ins. Check with the Ministry and you’ll see our permit, denied.”

Harry paused for a moment, looking at her. “Fine.” He stormed out of the room, grabbing his clothes from the living room and getting dressed quickly. 

She followed him, watching silently with her dark eyes. As he turned to head out the door and grab a Muggle cab back to his hotel, she reached out as if to put a hand on his arm. “Harry...” she said softly, but he shook his head and slipped out the door.

\- - -

He spent the entire ride back, and the rest of his sleepless night, replaying every moment of the day before, re-examining it and trying to determine her veracity at each and every moment. Had that laugh been real, or calculated to ensnare and distract him? That apology? That smile? Worst of all, memories of her legs trembling around his head, or her face as she murmured his name like a prayer, or her mouth against his, kept flooding his brain at random. 

At five he finally showered and went to the Thai ministry, asking if he could confirm reports of break-ins at LP Enterprises. A smiling witch who introduced herself as a detective on the case confirmed it and showed him the files, noting that the cases remained unsolved but were believed to be the work of a rogue group of Dark wizards classified as terrorists. 

He and Davies went home by Portkey at noon, after a report to the ambassador. Harry avoided talking at all, either to the ambassador or to Davies. For once, Davies was blessedly quiet about the previous evening; probably some combination of discretion and Harry’s evidently foul mood. 

Back in England, Harry spoke to Percy the first moment he could about the import request. Percy pulled the file for him, explaining in great detail what sorts of criteria could be used to flag a request for increased scrutiny, including a history of alleged Death Eater sympathies. Harry felt his stomach twist as he saw the red denial stamped across Pansy’s signature at the bottom of the request page. He tried not to think of her confident face, glittering in the sunset and the golden towers. 

That afternoon, he sent her a message by owl post. It only had four words: “I won’t arrest you.”

He got a message in return, carried by a large seabird. It contained a clipping of an article in a healing journal, describing experimental trials being carried on by LP Enterprises to remedy the effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse. It wasn’t signed, but it smelled like vanilla and coffee, and Harry hid it in a shoebox in the linen closet anyway. 

Weeks passed, then months, and Harry received regular updates on the status of the medical trials. All by anonymous post, of course, made less anonymous by the lingering scent of Pansy, all of which Harry studiously ignored. Until he was out in Hogsmeade, sitting with Ron and Neville as the three caught up after a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match. 

Neville was looking thoughtful, and announced he had news. “I haven’t told anyone until now, because I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but... my parents... they’re awake.”

Harry sat upright from where he’d been comfortably slouched, his eyes wide. “Neville... That’s amazing, mate. I’m so happy for you.” 

Ron was open-mouthed. “What happened? I mean, I’m happy for you, but how on earth?” 

Neville shrugged slightly and ran a hand through his hair. “Pansy Parkinson, actually.” 

Harry choked slightly on his Butterbeer, while Ron yelled so loudly that the entire pub turned to look at them. “What?! Pansy bloody Parkinson?”

Neville nodded calmly. “Turns out her company’s been working on a cure, and my parents were part of the trial. I told her we’d pay for it, but she threatened to hex me if I sent her any money. She’s... different than in school. Well, the threatening to hex me part wasn’t too different, but... she was nice. Seemed to care about my parents. Apologized for everything at school. Hannah and I invited her to St. Mungos for a little party for my parents, and she came. Was really good with Mum and Dad, too. We’re going to have everyone over once they’re up to it. It’s slow going, but... they’re really here.” 

Neville’s eyes were beginning to water, and Harry had a lump in his throat that was only half-related to Frank and Alice Longbottom, and he leaned around to hug Neville tightly. “We’d be happy to see them, whenever you’re all ready.”

\- - -

A few weeks later, Harry sent his first owl to Pansy since he’d told her he wouldn’t arrest her. It was almost as short as the last. It was just a picture of him, together with Neville’s parents, who were smiling and waving. On the back was scrawled “I owe you an apology. Seoul next week?” A few lines below, as if an afterthought, he’d written “Please. I’m not pretending.”

 


End file.
